Queen of Spades
by ShadowedStar
Summary: A tale of Jeanette Winterson's The Passion. Eliana, Villanelle's daughter, has grown up without any knowledge of her father, Henri, a madman imprisoned at San Servelo. When she learns this, she begins a quest for love, knowledge, and passion.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I am not Jeanette Winterson, although I totally wish I was able to write like her. The woman is _amazing. _I have no right to touch her material, but I'm doing this for love of characters and narrative, and like to think she'd understand. Villanelle, Henri, and all other characters from _The Passion _are copyright to Jeanette Winterson; Venice, France, Russia, and all other geographical locations are copyright to God and the people who built them and live in them. :) I'm just playing in their marvelous playground. Any original characters (including Eliana, whose existence is all that's mentioned in the actual novel; she doesn't even have a name there) are mine.

Author's notes: If you haven't read _The Passion _before reading this, then you're going to want to. It's only 160 pages, and it's beautiful. This story takes place after the ending of it, dealing with the life and times of a character who's only introduced in passing at the very end of the novel, and she's not even given a name. Both main characters from the novel will be involved as part of it, and the story will give away major spoilers, pretty much starting in this first chapter. In all fairness to the novel, though, knowing the ending does not in any way diminish the enjoyment of reading it because its biggest commendation is Winterson's prose and the commentary about love and other emotions/mental states that the novel gives.

Also, I'm not the greatest of timely updaters. I do promise to finish this, however.

Enjoy!

… … …

All that I know about my father is this: that he and my mother walked all the way from Russia to come here to Venice, the city of mazes and miracles, where you can set off walking along the exact same path two days in a row and never arrive at the same destination.

Lose your trail or find it on a map, either way it does not matter here. What matters is the compass of the heart.

I was born in this city, and knowledge of its ways and secrets lies deep in my bones. My mother is a boatman, from a line of boatman fathers. Rumor has it that she, like the other boatmen, has webbed feet. She never takes off her boots in front of me, so I have no way of knowing. I like to think it's true. Then she could walk on water.

I tried that once, and ended up splashing down into the canal. Fortunately, it was at a shallow point or I should have drowned. I do not have webbed feet, though I've tried to make substitutes on many an occasion. How much easier it would be in this city of watery roads to be able to walk across them; if you could set out as the crow flies, maybe you wouldn't end up so hopelessly lost.

I've been away from home for three weeks. Not because I'm angry with my mother; quite the contrary, I left to go pick up some bread from my grandfather the baker for her before this living city twisted the path beneath my feet and sent me off to quarters I never knew existed here. When I return, she'll simply ask me where the way took me, and that will be that. She probably knew this would happen. Being a boatman, she can take the watery roads and so avoid the worst of the city's movement. They say that the boatmen are walking pieces of the city, that they share a mind and a soul. I hope that is true, for then I am truly the daughter of Venice herself.

And if I'm the daughter of this city, then surely she'll help me find my way back.

It's beginning to rain and I'm cold. It's the beginning of Carnival season, and I know that back in Saint Mark's Square the costumed revelers are beginning to come out. It's my favorite time of year, but all I can think about right now is getting home and into some dry, warm clothes by the fire. The rain picks up and I dart under an archway. It's a low stone tunnel, and I can see already that the end dumps out into the canal. I see other people scurry past, a few rats, and finally some of the feral children who live on the exterior islands. Their faces are gaunt and lean, and they watch me with hungry eyes. If I don't find my way back soon, I could end up like them. I'm too old, though. The oldest of them is maybe thirteen; I'm just barely seventeen. I'd be fit to rule, but they only elect as king the meanest and toughest of the lot. I'd be eaten alive.

Slowly the rain begins to let up, and I see a stray boat floating a few feet away from me in the canal. It's not tied up, simply floating loose, and the oars are still inside. I reach out, straining my fingertips in an attempt to catch the edge.

"Won't get it that way, dearie," a crackling voice calls to me. I look up, seeing a woman with slime smeared through her hair, wearing an old tapestry like a toga. My mother has told me about her, a mad seeress who lives somewhere in the canals and who you can only ever find by accident. She'll tell your fortune, if she likes your face.

"I need to get home," I respond, not ceasing in my efforts. The woman cackles as though this is the funniest thing she's heard in ages.

"You need something, certainly, but home's not it. Beware the crescent moon in scarlet countenance; it will rip the road out from under your feet and show you worlds you never imagined. Go that way," she pointed imperiously back down the tunnel, where I had just come from.

"But I was just there!" This may be the City of Mazes, where each step forward gets you further lost, but retracing your steps is never helpful. I learned that long ago.

"Have it your way, Eliana," she says, shrugging and turning to head back inside her decaying palazzo.

That brings me up short. "How do you know my name?"

"Only so many daughters of the Sun running around. Even fewer still whose mothers brought them to me to have their fortunes read as infants. Ace of Diamonds, Queen of Spades, King of Hearts, Knave of Clubs – beware the Casino, Eliana. It brought your mother to her knees, and it will not be so gentle to you."

"Any other advice you have?" I ask knowing I'm being rude, but I'm annoyed.

"I have told you the piece of your destiny determined by the stars and that contributed by your mother. Discover your father, and I'll tell you the rest." Cackling, she wanders inside. I hear something crumble and fall with a dull thud, and her laughing stops, replaced by barely audible swearing.

I chuckle to myself, and turn to go back the way I came. I'm already lost; her advice can't do me any ill. To my surprise, I quickly find myself in front of Saint Mark's. Crossing myself and offering a prayer of thanks, I scurry the rest of the way home to my grandparents' house. My mother spends every Saturday there for dinner, and I'm confident of her ability to get us both home in her little boat without further adventures this month.

My grandmother welcomes me in with open arms, and my grandfather sets down a steaming bowl of soup and a large chunk of bread before me.

"I was beginning to think you'd fallen in love and run away," my mother says as she sits beside me. "Did you find something fascinating that caused you to forget the days? Or did the fairy queen whisk you away to her court where one night is many days long?" Her red hair is the color of new copper, backlit by the coals of the fire. I have always envied it, and the way it seems to have a life of its own, even as I wished that we were not so conspicuous with our hair like burnished metal, hers copper and mine gold.

"Whatever she did, it could be no worse than the adventure you had, Villanelle," my grandmother retorts.

"Our Eliana is far too sensible for things like that," my grandfather says before I can answer, but I can see the doubting gleam in my mother's eyes as she watches me. They often speak of her adventure in this way, all emotion and no details. It must have been terribly romantic.

"I simply got lost. You know how the streets change." I don't look up from my food as I speak, but I watch them from the corner of my eye.

Grandmother and Grandfather roll their eyes and share a troubled look. They've never been to the secret places of Venice. Every morning they set out on their usual paths, and their destinations never stray. Mother says it's because there's no magic in their blood and that means they can't see the shifting and changing, or how our city breathes. All I know is their solid, stable reality has never been my own.

Mother nods, and gives me a secret smile. "Next time you should set out with a ball of string and tie one end to our doorpost. Unravel it as you go, like Ariadne's magic thread, so that you can follow it back. When you reach here, you should tie it off. Then in the future, you can simply follow the string."

I nod, feeling that she's teasing me even though her tone is sober. Grandmother sighs and clears the other dishes from the table, while Grandfather fills his pipe and moves to sit by the fire. Mother watches me as I finish my soup and bread, but she says nothing. We live in different worlds, she and I, and though she has taught me all the skills she knows, I know in my heart that they will never be useful to me. I love to watch the dice fall and turn over the cards, not because I love to see what people risk, as she does, but because the way that things can change in an instant enchants me.

I am in love with fate itself.


	2. Chapter 2

See first section for disclaimer and overarching notes.

… … …

I ended up sleeping late. After being gone for so many days, it was a luxury to sleep on any surface softer than the cobblestone paths that serve for foot-traffic streets here. Mother woke me by laughing when she found that I had fallen out of bed without waking, and was curled up quite contentedly on the floor.

I'm sitting in Saint Mark's square now, my shawl wrapped tightly around my shoulders against the March air. It's chilly, and the breeze is coming in off the Adriatic Sea, just beyond the edge of the lagoon. So close, the sea, yet for all the trade I have with its wild waters it may as well be on the far side of the earth. The gulls are screaming out in the lagoon, and the madwoman's words are echoing in my brain.

I don't really believe that she can see the future. What point would there be in living then, if all things were predetermined and in order to know what will come to pass, one had only to learn the signs like learning to read a book? I'm in love with fate, but I'm an impetuous girl, and I like to believe that it has no more control than I do. I believe that we dance with fate, and together we make the future. Once Grandmother laughed at me for that, and asked me, "What about God?"

What about Him? If He wants to watch the play, He's welcome to, but I am playwright, director, and starring actress all the same.

Regardless of my belief in the madwoman's abilities, her words have stirred up an old desire, long dormant in my soul. I want to know my father.

When I was a girl, I asked Mother about him. She told me some fanciful tale and said he was Apollo, god of the Sun. She claimed he poured himself down to her, imprisoned in a tower by her father, as a shower of gold to beget himself a daughter. I told her it was Zeus who poured himself down as a golden shower to Danae. Mother laughed at me and told me I had no imagination, and that was the end of the conversation. I liked the story well enough, but I am no Perseus and I knew better than to presume to be so powerful.

People in costumes are dancing and parading through the streets. Here in the city of mazes you can spend much of your time in disguise, for our true business lies in the trade of secrets and deceit. One masquerader in particular catches my eye, a man in a brilliant gold and silver suit, with a mask like the rising sun. He watches me, and, catching my eye, begins to walk toward me.

"Lady," he says, bowing prettily before me. "Will you honor me with a dance?"

I want to, but the madwoman's words – "only so many daughters of the Sun… beware the Casino… Discover your father and I'll tell you the rest" – float up to the surface of my mind once more.

"I'm afraid I must leave for the moment, Lord Sol, but I will be back tomorrow. I shall save your dance for you then." I leave before he can reply, sneaking off down one of the small alleyways near Saint Mark's, and heading as directly as I can manage to my grandfather's bakery.

I arrive without any unwanted detours, fortunately, but find that Grandfather is away. Grandmother is there, baking pastries and rolls and serving customers.

"Eliana? I'd thought you'd be spending the day watching the masks," she says. She sounds thoroughly unsurprised. "What brings you here?"

"You knew my father."

She pauses, giving me a look as though seeing me for the first time. "Why do you ask about that, child?"

"Because I suspect I'm the doge's illegitimate daughter, and if I am, then I can get myself a palace." I sweep my arms grandly as I say this, making a play out of it as much as I can. Mine is a ridiculous situation to be in. Surely every child is provided with at least basic information about their parents? "Honestly, Grandmother. Wouldn't you want to know if you were in my position?"

"Some things are best allowed to lie," she answers, and begins kneading the bread for rolls with a vengeance. Customers are staring. I know that she's wishing I would lower my voice or, better still, leave once again. My mother was trouble, but she was trouble of a different sort. She at least had the grace to have her adventure outside of our city. Although, if the gossips are to be believed, not all of it remained outside of these shores.

"Nana!" I snatch the dough out from under her hands, forcing her to look at me. I haven't called her by that nickname since I was a small child, still stumbling after my mother and fumbling to shuffle the cards she would lay before me. "Tell me something. Anything! A, a name, a birth date. A scar? A wart? Anything?"

"These things are best let alone, Eliana. You know your mother doesn't like to speak of these things."

"And when have you ever bothered with what Mother thought?"

"You're still her daughter. I may disapprove of how she raises you, but it's not my place. I've raised my children."

"Please?"

"Give me my dough back."

Her eyes lock mine; we're at an impasse and she knows it. I've inherited the formidable will that allowed my mother to walk all the way from Moscow without surrendering to the cold and fear; that will comes from the boatmen, not my Grandmother.

"His name was Henri," she says quietly. "And he was a soldier. I'll tell you no more."

She may not have my formidable will, but she has strength of a kind. Once she's bent, she will not yield further. Still, I don't so much surrender the dough as have it yanked out of my unmoving hands. It was one of my few moments of true stillness, pondering that revelation.

"A Frenchman! And a soldier! But Mother despises soldiers," I say. After her husband sold her to Napoleon's army, it's little surprise. She never told me what happened there, but I'm not a stupid girl. I can connect the dots.

"He walked with her from Moscow. He was a friend. Terribly in love with Villanelle, but she wouldn't return the sentiment. She's always been so damnably _stubborn._"

"But if she wouldn't have him… Nana. Did he… Am I… Was Mother…?" I can't quite bring myself to say the words; the idea they encompass is too foul and brutal for me to comprehend.

She gives a small shrug. "She never saw fit to share the details with me. I never wanted to know; I didn't want it to touch you. On that, at least, your mother and I agree."

There's silence for several minutes. Then a question bubbles up and escapes before I'm even aware of it, "Did he die?"

"A living death, perhaps."

Her words confuse me, but my Mother comes into the bakery before I can ask. Grandmother startles, looking guilty. But Mother is oblivious as ever as she goes about her business.

"Eliana, what are you doing here?" she asks me as she sets herself down at the counter. She's wearing breeches and a false mustache today. I can't understand why she dresses up this way, but then she can't understand how I am able to watch the stray cats chase seagulls by the canal for hours. We may share blood, but we don't share a soul.

"I was hungry," I lie. "I saw your friend."

"Which one?"

"The woman with moss in her hair."

Mother smiles. "Did she tell you your fortune?"

"She warned me away from the Casino. Apparently she's not a very good fortune-teller if she can't see how little I enjoy it there."

Mother shrugs a shoulder, but her expression is guarded. "Her skill doesn't lie in predictions, but in discernment."

I roll my eyes. "She told me to find my father," I add.

Mother turns to stare at me, her skin rapidly going pale. "What did she tell you about him?"

I peek over at my grandmother out of the corner of my eye. She is furiously kneading bread dough, trying to ignore my conversation with my mother. "She said that he was a soldier, and that he suffers a living death."

Mother shook her head sadly. "Don't concern yourself with Henri. He's never getting out of San Servelo. I've tried."

I feel as though I've been splashed in the face with icy water from the canals. San Servelo is infamous. Only the most fabulously wealthy of the dangerously mad were allowed there, until Napoleon egalitarianized the cottage industry of locking crazies away. Now it's simply a refuge for the dangerously mad, regardless of their ability to pay. Anything to keep them away from normal society.

I bid my mother good afternoon and leave the bakery, feeling in need of fresh air and time to think. My father is a French madman. My mother is a Venetian boatman's daughter. With so much that is unusual about my pedigree, I cannot help but wonder what bizarre happenings lay before me.

Closing my eyes, I round a corner, hoping that the city will bring me back to the fortune-teller's domain.


End file.
